


Lovely

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Gen, Graphic Description, Greg House Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Greg House Whump, Hallucinations, Hurt Greg House, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Greg House, Post-Episode: s08e1 Twenty Vicodin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prison, Rape/Non-con shown in flashbacks, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Violence, prison rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:33:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27098152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: "He said you'd say that."Rolling over, House is fully prepared to let the guy have it - but of course, he pauses, words registering, and all he can muster instead of an insult and sarcastic comment is a blank stare.Then, he repeats, in case he somehow misheard that, but he's not sure how he could, "he?"------Basically, season eight of House MD but... darker. TW: Rape/Non-con.
Relationships: Greg House & Chi Park, Greg House & Eric Foreman, Greg House & James Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	1. Thought I Found A Way, Thought I Found A Way Out

House is still recovering when the warden bangs on the door.

Naturally, the sound startles him. He flinches harder than he would have liked to admit, chest shuddering in surprise as he hears keys jingling and the lock turning. His leg offers a harsh throb of protest as he moves, but it isn't enough to stop him from rolling over to see who's there. The face he sees isn't exactly one he wants to see - and yet, of all the people it could have been, he decides begrudgingly, he much rather prefers this one - but either way it would have been unpleasant, because it's still in the middle of the night and House didn't like being woken up in the middle of the night, especially when he'd barely gotten enough sleep to begin with. Uncomfortable, he shifts slightly, ignoring the wetness that still clings to the sheets below him, and reaches his hand down under the blanket to grip his thigh when he feels it starting to cramp.

"Get up, House," the warden orders, and House has to fight against every instinct telling him to just get up and do whatever the hell the guy wants him to do. Instead, in his half-asleep state, his mind manages to come up with the most sarcastic comment it can offer him at the moment.

He takes it, because he's House, because of course he does, because even with everything he's been through in the past year, he just can't resist. "Must be some mistake." He hates the way his words stilt and clip, the way his voice is trembling, the raspiness and the croakiness. He can pass it off as just having woken up, but it doesn't stop him from running his tongue over his swollen lips all the same, as if he can soothe the discomfort in his throat like that somehow. Still, he continues speaking, because that's all he can do. "I specifically requested my wake-up startle three hours from now." As if that's the end of the conversation, he rolls back over and curls his arm up onto the pillow beside him, but he doesn't bother to get comfortable again.

"Some VIP visitor," the warden sighs, not leaving, not caring. House swallows back the bile in his throat and pushes past the lump that had formed, briefly confused. VIP visitor? He hadn't had a single visitor the whole year, who the hell would bother visiting him now? He doesn't bother to ask because he knows he's going to get an answer anyway, and of course he does, "Dean of Medicine from your old hospital?" And, well, that's enough to make him jolt again.

House rolls over, fixing his gaze on the warden. He doesn't bother masking his surprise because he knows it doesn't really matter, this guy doesn't care, but the shock fades quickly. Replaced with contempt, and maybe a little bit of bitterness. Cuddy. Why the hell would she visit? Wilson hadn't even come to visit. He seemed to take the whole 'driving his car into Cuddy's house' way too personally… then again, it wasn't like Wilson had gotten out completely unscathed either. Hell, he'd been hurt more - physically - than Cuddy had been. But his best friend - former? - has to be fine now, he's just pissed. He doesn't have a right to be pissed. Cuddy has a right to be pissed. Out of all the people he expected to visit him, she's not one.

His brain supplies another sarcastic comment. He takes it desperately, knowing it's his only coping mechanism. "I've had dreams about this." He lets that hang in the air for a moment, swallowing back the rest of his discomfort, and rolls back over in his bed with a sigh. He doesn't want to see Cuddy, he doesn't _have_ to see Cuddy. "I'm going to assume this is another one."

The warden doesn't leave. Instead, he - annoyingly - bangs his keys on the wall. "Get up." The bed shifts as his roommate stirs, and a rush of cold fear manages to flood his stomach before he stifles it again. He rolls over, more than irritated now, and fixes a glare on the warden.

"I can refuse to see any visitor I want," he spits, but he knows he sounds more tired than angry. Because he is. He's so fucking tired. He's not sleeping, he's in pain, and his roommate is half-awake now which means he's not going to be getting too much sleep once the warden does decide to leave as it is. Still, he wants the damn guy out of his face and he wants Cuddy to know that she's not even welcome in a god-forsaken prison to see him, and so he snarls out harshly, "tell the Dean I don't want to see her." And rolls over again. Now, this will signify the end of the conversation, or so he hopes, as he shoves his arm underneath his pillow this time and struggles in vain to get his body to relax and adjust again, hoping for at least an hour of sleep.

"He said you'd say that."

Rolling over, House is fully prepared to let the guy have it - but of course, he pauses, words registering, and all he can muster instead of an insult and sarcastic comment is a blank stare.

Then, he repeats, in case he somehow misheard that, but he's not sure how he could, "he?"

* * *

He ends up following the warden down to the visiting room, still half-asleep and perplexed. His leg hurts more than usual, and he's unbalanced, but if he leans on his cane at just the right angle, nobody is able to tell. And nobody cares. In his head, he goes through the list of possibilities, who could possibly be the new Dean of Medicine. It had only been a year, damn. Cuddy had left. Somehow he's not surprised by this, but the revelation doesn't give him anywhere near as much satisfaction as he'd hoped. He's considering Chase now, though he knows logically that the wombat probably wouldn't last a day as Dean of Medicine, as the warden opens the door and gestures for him to enter. He takes a cautious step inside and stops in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes widen only a fraction when he sees who's there.

Eric Foreman sits, lounged comfortably in a chair on one side of a desk. House can't keep himself from staring, curling his fingers a little tighter around the handle of his cane reflexively. There's a face he hasn't seen in a while, not really - but one of few that have haunted him.

_A hand trails up his spine, hot breath against his ear. His entire body tingles in response to it, but he can't wrench himself away. There's a voice speaking, too, one that shouldn't sound as familiar as it does. He knows, logically, that the man behind him isn't his former employee - but the voice is the same, and when he cranes his neck to look, he finds himself staring into Foreman's face anyway. He doesn't know why. He wishes he knows why, but he doesn't. All he knows is that it feels real, as the hallucination offers him a cruel smile, as his hands pause against House's shoulder, and leans in even closer. "Not such a cocky bastard now, House?"_

He draws his eyebrows across his forehead silently, but makes no other visible indication of his discomfort as he stalks forward. He moves slowly, carefully, using his limp as an excuse for the way he practically prowls across the room. Like a lion, but the movement isn't predatory or offensive - more so _defensive_ than anything, protective. He knows Foreman's real, he knows there's nothing to be scared of. And that's the only reason he takes his seat across from the other man, the only reason he doesn't tense when the door is pulled shut, the only reason he can finally bring himself to look up and meet Foreman's gaze after a moment of contemplation. He's real, and he's there, and sure House isn't afraid, but he is definitely still perplexed. Dean of Medicine. He's… interested, confused, but not too surprised. After all, this is Eric Foreman. His doppelganger, ironically, if there ever was one. If there was anybody fit to run the place…

Of course, he's not going to tell Foreman that. He has some pride left, at least in regards to the life he's left behind. So he takes the words his brain supplies him with, because, again, it's all he knows how to do at this point. He just goes along with it now, says what comes to his mind. "What's the hiring policy over there?" He rolls his fingers over his cane lightly, glancing down at it for a second. His fingers are trembling just slightly against the handle, but he ignores that. Having his cane close to him is comforting, and he really wants to twirl it around a little, but he knows he runs the risk of getting it taken away if he does. "All ass-based?" He sighs, looking up.

Foreman just stares back at him, chin lowering slightly. The look in his eyes is one that House recognizes well, something close to amusement, but… marred with arrogance and contempt.

" _Not so tough anymore," Not-Foreman's voice is growling in his ear, fingers tangled in his hair now. His head is tilted backwards, drawing a sharp gasp from the diagnostician. There's lips on his neck, lips and tongue that feels too real to be fake, and his chest shudders as they trail to his shoulder. Teeth are next, grazing against the skin while Not-Foreman murmurs, "just pathetic."_

"I can get you out of here," Foreman's voice cuts through the memory, and House fights not to visibly shake himself as he lifts his gaze back up to the other man. He's watching him so intently that House is almost worried it would be impossible to miss _something_ , whatever it might be.

He ignores the concern, nodding to the folder. "Not unless that file has a file in it."

Unsure whether to believe Foreman's claims, he settles himself back again and forces himself to focus on the cane for a few more seconds. The other man is reaching into his jacket now, and it feels like slow motion waiting for him to continue. He wants to believe there's a chance in Hell he could get out of here, but hope isn't his strong suit and he still has six months left to serve. Foreman might be Dean of Medicine, but House highly doubts he's good enough to get him out. And if he is, then he owes the man an apology for sorely underestimating his capabilities - in which case, not happening anyway. As much as he wants to believe he'll be freed, he… can't.

He watches Foreman pull a little yellow folder out of his jacket, pressing it down onto the desk. "Judge's order for your immediate release," he says simply, leaning back again.

House freezes without meaning to, but Foreman just stares back steadily, calm and collected as ever. It takes the man a moment to flick his gaze toward the folder on the desk, cracking his mouth open slightly as he stares. Obviously there's something, something Foreman wants here. This won't just come without conditions, and he knows that. He doesn't feel hope, he doesn't feel fear; he has to trade the situation he's in for another, and while he doesn't know the conditions of the situation he might find himself in, he knows it has to be better than this one. Running his tongue over his lips, House draws his head back slightly and lifts his gaze back up to Foreman, narrowing his eyes faintly. "I had eight months added to my sentence two months ago," he tells him carefully, studying the other man's intense gaze. "The math is pretty basic."

"We have a crisis," Foreman sighs. "Which is good news for you. You're out tonight on conditional parole. The condition being that you're employed by me." He tilts his head slightly, and almost seems to smile. House curls his fingers a little tighter around his cane instinctively, lowering his chin slightly. It's so simple, but the way he says it makes him tense. "At PPTH."

"No thanks." He glances down to the laptop, to the files, before flicking his gaze right back up to Foreman. The shift in his expression is subtle, but it's enough to make his shoulders twitch.

_Not-Foreman's in front of him now, knees digging into House's thighs. Whatever cries of pain the man might be able to muster are muffled by the man's lips pressing hard over his own. There's a hand on the back of his neck, keeping him from moving backwards even a little; the pain engulfing him makes it impossible to move, or struggle. All he can do is tilt his head back, the man's fingernails digging into the back of his neck, tangled up in his hair as he forces his mouth open. A whine breaks through, the pressure on his thighs increasing as Not-Foreman leans forward, and he screws his eyes shut against the tears in his eyes. The man's other hand is hitching up his shirt, but he barely feels the fingers digging into his ribs through the pain. This is ridiculously, terrifyingly horrible either way, but he wishes it wasn't Foreman in front of him, wasn't Foreman his mind had conjured up in place of the man that's actually on top of him._

He bites his tongue and stares, blankly, as Foreman's voice brings him back to the present. His hand slips from his cane, leaving it propped up on the table so that his fingers can find his thigh instead, digging loosely into the scar through the fabric of his pants as he tries in vain to massage away the cramp, and the phantom pain that still lingers from the memory. The back of his neck tingles, too, remembering the feeling of nails in his skin. His lips hurt, his tongue aches.

"You'd think you'd be a little more enticed at the idea of leaving," Foreman's saying. His hands raise, and House stills for a moment. "Maybe you need a little extra incentive." He's reaching for his laptop, and the former doctor knows this, but he can't keep himself from leaning back.

"Wait." Running his tongue over his lips, he trades careful glances between Foreman, the laptop and the door before he manages to speak again, weighing his options. Every part of him aches to be able to escape, even if that means ending up under Foreman's thumb. At least he won't have to deal with the alternative - he's bad, but not _that_ bad. "... you said… immediate release?"

_There's a hand between his legs, palming him through his jeans. He's moaning, whining, whimpering into Not-Foreman's mouth as he squirms beneath him, trying to get at least a second of relief. Time passes by too quickly; one minute he's got one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his crotch, but then the next House is flat on his back and Not-Foreman's pinning his hands to the floor with his knees, fumbling with his belt buckle while House tries in vain to struggle free. He only gives up when his belt is ripped off, freezing as the man tugs his jeans down just enough to slip his hand in. And then he's moaning again without permission, mewling in protest and hating every sound that comes out of his mouth. Not-Foreman just bends closer as his fingers curl around House's cock, trapping his mouth in another hard kiss._

_His lips trail, slowly, moving down House's jaw. He tongue-kisses all the way down to the cripple's stubble, then ducks his head under House's to suck on the skin on his neck._

" _Please," House finally gasps, biting back a whimper as Not-Foreman's hand curls tighter around his cock. He feels way too vulnerable then, but he doesn't care anymore. He's going to beg as hard as he could if it means there's a chance he'll be released. He hisses out a gasp, jerking sharply, as Not-Foreman's mouth trails up to his ear instead, sucking on the lobe slowly. His wrist twirls around House's cock, offering a quick pump, and House's back arches sharply._

" _Just be good," Not-Foreman whispers, kissing his ear. "And you'll be just fine."_

Foreman smirks at him, and House is quick to snap back to his senses, easily suppressing a flinch as the other man pushes himself up and walks over to pound his fist against the door. "There's a patient. Technically. Two lungs in a box." Foreman glances back at him, lips twitching.

House arches an eyebrow just as the door opens, and Foreman turns away, brandishing the little folder toward the warden, who plucks it out of his grip and rips it open almost immediately.

Once he's satisfied with what he's read, he nods, looks up, and glances at House. "Let's go."

House accepts the order gladly, climbing to his feet and using his cane to steady himself until he's able to walk. He doesn't flinch or tense as Foreman brushes past him to retrieve his things, even though every instinct screams at him to shy away. No, instead, he composes himself and follows the warden out of the room, not even glancing back. When the other man makes his way to his side, House offers no reaction other than a subtle glance. Despite their closeness, and despite the discomfort it brings, he knows it's nothing more than a stupid chemical reaction. His goddamn amygdala acting up. There's nothing rational about it, so he resolves to ignore it.

It's time to go home.


	2. But You Never Go Away, So I Guess I Gotta Stay Now

House remains silent as he follows the warden back to his cell, this time with Foreman at his side. He enters somewhat reluctantly, peering inside first to make sure his roommate is sleeping, before entering completely and shuffling inside to get the rest of his things. He doesn't bother with the pills under his pillow, there's no point in it now and he's not about to risk getting caught. Instead, he gathers up the few things he has and pauses to peer up at his roommate one last time before he turns to leave again, his things stuffed securely under one arm. Foreman's staring at him as he steps out, but House barely pays him any attention. Simply slides past them and waits for the warden to shut the door and lock it before he relaxes.

After that, it's just a simple process of getting his other things back. _His_ cane is returned to him, and he finds himself twirling it as he walks - well, hops, mostly - just to get familiar with it again. He's got his clothes, but he hasn't gone to change yet. That can wait. He lets them put the ankle bracelet on him without a second's protest, knowing better than to argue at that point. If this is the way it has to be for him to get some freedom, then he'd suck it up and deal with it. His pride, he decides, isn't worth this. Nothing is worth this. So he obeys until, finally, Foreman is leading him outside, holding the door open for him to step out, and he's finally leaving it all behind. Hopefully for good - if he keeps his mouth shut, does whatever the hell Foreman wants, until his parole is over. He doesn't know how long it might be, or how good he'll have to be to earn it, but, again, having to return isn't worth the risk of any disobedience he might have offered before.

He knows his new friends won't be happy about his early release.

Barely listening as Foreman explains the case to him, he follows the other man to the car and climbs in the passenger seat without a word, setting his things down at his feet. He keeps his cane in his hand and reminds himself not to tense when Foreman slides in beside him.

Once the doors close, though, Foreman rounds on him with an expression of pure bewilderment, such a harsh change from the cold indifference he'd displayed while inside that House can't help but jerk back a little when he looks up again, hands falling still against his cane and his eyebrows raising faintly toward his former fellow - now his new boss - in curiosity. And a little bit of alarm, but House would deny that until he's blue in the face. He's just caught off guard, and can you blame him? This was Foreman, after all. "Okay, what the hell's with you?" The other man marvels, eyeing him. "I was expecting more of a fight. And more… I don't know, snide remarks and sarcastic comments. But you've basically been on mute the entire time."

House wrinkles his nose and frowns at him after a moment, allowing his eyebrows to crease in a brief moment of genuine confusion before the expression settles again. "Awh, are you worried?"

"Not worried, confused," Foreman bites back. But he settles again, and although his eyes narrow in a clear look of suspicion, he lets it go after a moment and House relaxes once more. "Better, though." Turning away, his new boss reaches out to start the car. He frowns as the engine rumbles to life, a sound and sensation he can't say he missed, then lets out a hum.

"I thought you'd appreciate me being on mute," he comments. "Me being your slave and all."

He smiles at the word before he can stop himself, but he can't bring himself to open his mouth and release the joke that had risen to the tip of his tongue. Instead, he swallows it back, because he doesn't know how far is 'too far' with Foreman anymore. Maybe once he'd had some leverage over the man, maybe then he would have definitely said it. He wouldn't have cared. He'd have just enjoyed pissing him off. But, he rationalizes, pissing him off isn't something House wants to do right now. For his own benefit, he _should_ keep his mouth shut. God knows what it would take for Foreman to have enough and send him back to prison, and House, for once, decides he's not quite willing to push those boundaries to the breaking point.

Foreman doesn't respond, but House catches his frown anyway as the other man's head turns toward him just a fraction. And if the diagnostician can't _quite_ suppress a flinch in time as Foreman's hand moves too swiftly toward the steering wheel for him to realize what's going on, it's rather excusable considering he _did_ just wake up and is still rather sleep-deprived as it is. He's just thankful that Foreman doesn't seem to notice, directing his gaze through the windshield and pulling out of the parking space, and House stares ahead at the building.

A part of him is almost grateful to the man. If nothing else, Foreman's getting him out of a bad situation that he didn't think he'd be able to weasel himself out of. If nothing else, he won't be trapped somewhere he doesn't _want_ to be, enduring abuse in an unfamiliar environment.

If nothing else, what he'll go through at work may damn near kill his pride, and every so often he wonders if it's worth it - but then, remembering what he goes through every day, what he's gone through every day for the past nine months since he'd been there, he decides that it is. Because here, his pride is already dead. At work, it'll just get a little scarred, bruised, broken. That, House decides as he settles back in his seat, is better than any alternative his mind can come up with. And he's going to hate himself for it, regret the decision every so often. Until a nightmare or a flashback reminds him what he left behind and why he left it behind. He's going to be afraid to slip, lose his temper and act on impulse. But being afraid is good in this situation. As long as he's afraid, that fear will prevent him from doing something stupid. From being sent back.

Fear is a survival instinct. House would be stupid not to use it.

And House is nothing if not smart.

* * *

He thinks he's ready. He thinks he's ready for anything.

At first, he's fine. He follows Foreman dutifully as they enter the building, looking around and taking in familiar - and some unfamiliar - surroundings. He notices a new painting, comforting swirls of greens and blues that, for some reason, actually relax him. They seem to jump out at him, wrapping him in a feeling of odd warmth, and he can't shake it until Foreman calls him forward again. He stares for a moment, then shakes his head, blinks, and turns to follow again.

"Where's my patient?" He finds himself asking, because he can't quite help himself. Just being back in his old environment relaxes him somewhat. It's the familiarity of it, an odd sense of comfort that lingers even long after the warmth from the painting fades away. It's enough to make him brave enough to fall into step with Foreman, but he doesn't quite look at him yet. Instead, he studies the file in his hand that he'd been given, having already scanned it thoroughly and received all the information he needs from it. But he keeps it clutched close to him for now, twirling it lightly every so often, and slows slightly along with Foreman when they near the elevator. Unconsciously, he can't help but step away from him, only to veer right back to his side when a few people brush past him, heading in the opposite direction. "We need…" He stares after them, the words failing him for a moment, then shakes his head and forces himself to focus once more, turning back to Foreman - who's watching him a little too intently.

He glares without meaning to, and corrects himself too quickly even for his own liking. He makes a show of widening his eyes and looking away, but Foreman's expression shifts anyway, suspicion glittering through his dark eyes. "We need to _not_ talk," House finishes simply, sighing. Fear is his friend right now, he tries to remind himself. Fear is something he needs to rely on. Embrace. It's just hard to do when he doesn't specifically _want_ anyone to know that he's afraid. The doctor grits his teeth, scowls, and twirls the file again. It's actually a really tough decision…

"ICU isolation room," Foreman finally responds, words short and clipped and to the point. House rolls his shoulders back and steps back under the guise of a stretch-and-stumble motion, and his new boss merely rolls his eyes. He comes to a stop at the elevator, and House slows so he can stand somewhat behind him, once more uncomfortable at being too close but too proud to put as much distance between them as he would have liked at that point. He frowns, rolling his tongue between his teeth for a moment, and is mostly just pretending to pay attention as he sweeps his gaze around and glances up and down the hallway. It's mostly empty, of course it is, it's nighttime and most doctors are at home. But the few around them keep him on the edge. "The transplant team will meet you there with updates from the past two hours."

"Great," House responds, if not somewhat distractedly. He turns back in time to watch Foreman press the button to call the elevator up, and waits a bit before holding the file out. "Take this."

Foreman barely glances at him, his gaze grazing something near House's temple, before he turns away with an expression of pure disinterest that's a stark contrast to the intense glances he kept shooting House in the car earlier. The man can't help but frown, dropping his arm. "How about you drop it in your office?" Foreman retorts, turning away but not quite facing him yet.

House is speaking before he can stop himself, taken over by the impulses he'd been afraid to give into. "I completely understand, and…" He makes a face, and a point of rolling his eyes, despite every instinct screaming at him to shut up. He's already started and he can't just stop now, but he'd do anything to be able to just snap his mouth shut and go back on mute. "Almost respect your desire to appear to be Dean of Medicine, given that your title is Dean of Medicine." Another pause, before he adds, begrudgingly, at that, "on the other hand… seriously?"

When Foreman fails to respond with anything except a silent, blank stare, House has to physically restrain himself from moving back, digging his left heel into the floor in silence. He only moves when he absolutely has to, when the elevator dings and the doors open, but he waits until Foreman turns away and steps inside first. Then he hesitates, before the man can see, bites the inside of his cheek and forcefully reminds himself that the man is real and whatever else he might do, whatever rivalry might be between them and whatever the hell the other man might think of him, Foreman would never do the things House's horrible, twisted, hallucinating head had put him in the position of doing. It wasn't even Foreman doing the things that had been done to him - he was just who House conjured up instead, almost as if his sick mind had thought a familiar face would put him at ease with the situation. Kind of failed there.

He follows Foreman inside and turns, wary despite his best efforts, as Foreman presses the button and the doors slide shut again. He briefly considers retreating to the corner of the elevator, and actually instinctively tightens his grip on his cane when the other man suddenly turns to face him. The small, enclosed area coupled with the cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach isn't a lovely combination. He's actually really annoyed at himself now, knowing full well that it's not rational, and that annoyance is the _only_ thing that keeps him from letting go of what's left of his pride and dignity, and keeps him from flinching when Foreman finally speaks. "Get this straight. You break the law? You go back to jail," Foreman tells him, simply. He turns away once again, looking up at the ceiling instead of House. "Scam extra Vicodin? Back to jail. Flout my authority, make the hospital look bad? Back to jail." He casts a swift glance in House's direction, his expression still blank, but he almost smirks before he turns away. "I own you."

Well, he's glad Foreman's not looking at him, because he can't suppress a flinch in time.

" _I own you," the man growls in his ear, as House claws desperately at the floor beneath him, biting down on his tongue to keep from screaming out in pain. "You hear me? I_ _ **own**_ _you."_

The doors open, the ding of the elevator tearing him from his thoughts. A chill races down his spine, bringing a rough shudder from the doctor that he can't suppress in time either, and Foreman glances at him and frowns, but he doesn't say anything before stepping out of the elevator. House takes a second - dignity be damned - to compose himself before following.

Suddenly, it's not such a hard decision anymore.

He's surprised - and a little annoyed - that Foreman has the gall to look concerned when House finally steps out of the elevator after him. But he bites back the biting remark he wants to make, literally, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and holding it there until the irrational impulse to say something he knows damn well he's going to regret saying passes. But he ignores it when Foreman suddenly asks him 'what the hell is with' him again, just shaking his head slightly at the man and leaning on his cane. He's not about to risk opening his mouth. And it's clear Foreman doesn't understand, because concern melts into confusion, confusion into surprise, surprise into bewilderment. Then he seems to realize it, because he startles, scowls, and heads off again.

House takes a swift look around and follows, decidedly keeping his mouth shut as he follows. It's not a hard thing to do until they pass where his office is - where his office _should_ be. Instead it's replaced by, as it now says on the door, orthopedics. He stares inside through the glass wall, trading glances between the people inside and the words on the door and widening his eyes slightly in a mixture of dismay and outrage. He comes to a stop without realizing it, and Foreman pauses in response just ahead of him when the click of his cane against the floor falls silent, turning to regard him with confusion, then understanding, as he glances toward the office.

"Ortho needed more space. You're this way." He inclines his head, apparently in the direction House's new office is, but the man doesn't care enough just yet to look away from his old one.

"Where's my stuff?" He demands, sounding and feeling more like his old self, but he's not quite sure how to feel about that. He just knows at the moment he's a little more than pissed off, despite his half-hearted attempts to rationalize the fact that before now, he hadn't even expected to be able to return to the hospital at all. He should have expected something like this.

"No idea."

House shakes his head, mostly in disbelief. He works his jaw for a second, opening and closing his mouth as he fights for words he knows better than to say. Actually, it's kind of scary how much he wants to say, and how much he's able to fight back despite the anger pulsing through him, but it still doesn't quite feel like enough to prevent him from saying something that's going to get him into trouble. He continues to stare, watching one of the doctors inside saw through someone's cast, then tosses his head to the side to look in the other direction. His attempts at rationalization fall flat, but that's nothing new. What's new is the way he decides to react to it, fighting his impulses in earnest for the first time in his life and taking a breath to steady himself. Then he asks, voice heavy under the strain of controlling his emotions, "what about my team?"

Foreman frowns at him, finally looking somewhat remorseful. But he didn't respond immediately, casting a swift glance toward the office before he turns and heads off. House has to force himself to move after him, but he doesn't really try to keep pace, more or less lagging behind. "It's been a year. Taub, Chase, Thirteen… all moved on. The world does that sometimes," he adds over his shoulder, but his harsh words fell short with a tone that bordered on bitterness.

House just shakes his head, fighting through another rush of anger. "No, it doesn't."

Foreman only heaves a sigh at him, shaking his head in what House doesn't care to identify as irritation or agreement. He slows as he turns the corner, and the diagnostician adjusts his own pace to fit his accordingly in order to stay a good few feet behind him as Foreman pauses again. "Here's your new office…" Foreman reaches out and grabs the doorknob, while House merely stares at the door in disgust. It only further intensifies when Foreman opens the door to reveal a room barely the size of a closet, with only a desk and a couple of chairs. Then he shuffles aside, glances back, and nods into the room while House just stares, "and there's your new team."

House steps forward, finally putting himself within the range of 'close enough to be immensely uncomfortable', and ignores the panic that tightens his chest when Foreman leans in beside him. He focuses on the girl inside instead, hunched in a chair. She looks up at the two of them leaning in the doorway, blinks, and leans back a fraction. "Hi," her greeting is small, nervous. She actually reminds him of how Chase was when he first hired him, and that alone gives him a brief pang of mixtures of sorrow and anger. He flinches away when Foreman moves, too startled to give himself proper time to compose himself, but the other man doesn't seem to notice. He's already walking away, checking his watch as he leaves. The only witness is the girl in the office, and House, after a moment of eyeing her, decides that she's not going to be much of a problem. Admittedly, once he's finally out of Foreman's presence, the tension that had built in his shoulders he hadn't even known was there to begin with finally gives, deflating in an instant.

* * *

The girl is, apparently, named Dr. Chi Park. And she's also, apparently, not as shy and timid as House had initially assumed. After only half an hour with her, House notices a few key things; she doesn't speak like someone who's nervous or scared of _him_ or anyone around her; she's making a concentrated effort to keep her voice low; she pauses every so often before she speaks. He finds himself poking and prodding, growing intrigued with the girl, unfortunately for her, and so he takes it upon himself to try to find her breaking point. Only to realize it's not that easy. Every time he thinks he's getting to her, when her eyes flash and her mouth twists, every brief flicker of emotion disappears under a blank mask almost instantly. He chalks it up to just not being at his best right then - nobody's that stoic, nobody's that immune to him. Especially not someone like her, who somehow, even with her blank expression, looks only a few words away from breaking. Then again, that also makes him wonder what _kind_ of breaking, exactly. Still, even temporarily, she has his respect - not that he plans on admitting that, like, ever.

"I'm not interested in another department's sloppy seconds," he growls instead as he makes his way down the hall, with her in tow. She makes an effort to keep pace with him, and while her voice wavers a little as she responds - though that seems to just be the way she talks anyway - her face is still mostly blank when he spares a quick glance in her direction to see if he'd won.

"I'm _not_ sloppy seconds-"

"Three AM," he sneers in response, and spins around to face her with an abrupt stop that sends a rush of pain flushing through his leg. His face contorts in response, mood souring even further, and Park frowns slightly at him in what doesn't seem to be concern as much as bewilderment. That also intrigued him. "If Foreman had called you in from home, you wouldn't have pressed clothes, coiffed hair and makeup, which means that you were already here in the hospital."

He's pleased by his observations, but Park isn't impressed. She meets his gaze and furrows her eyebrows, shifting a little on her feet in a way that would have made House think she was still nervous, except she wasn't. If anything, she was… _indignant._ "Yes, I was oncall for neurology."

House shakes his head in response and turns away to keep walking. She follows along behind him at a steady pace. "Well, if _that_ were true, you'd be working right now and unavailable to help. Which means that you're hanging out in the hospital _pretending_ to work. Which means you're not just a reject," he adds, snarkily. This time it's just to be a bitch, for no other reason aside from the fact that his leg hurts and if he doesn't lash out verbally, he's going to lash out physically. Probably not at her, but he doesn't feel like getting in trouble for punching a wall or something. "You're a cowardly reject who was trying to hide her rejectedness from someone."

"I'm not a _reject."_ This time, there's an edge of laughter to Park's tone when she responds. It stops him short in surprise. He pauses, turns, and regards her somewhat curiously in response. Every second he spends with her just adds to his intrigue - as much as he's pushing, deep down, he really wants her to stay around. Because she's a puzzle, and he wants to solve it.

Still, it doesn't stop him from retorting, "then go back to neurology," before he turns again.

"I can't."

Oh? House slows to a stop again, curious and bewildered by her tone. He can't place it. There's not quite _shame_ there, maybe a little bit of guilt. But that indignance is back as well. Yet when he turns to face her, he realizes, there _is_ shame; her usually stoic expression has broken, and if House didn't know any better he'd say she almost looked humiliated. She looks at him for only a second, then glances away, opening her mouth slightly. By the time she turns back to him and speaks, she's schooled her expression back into a more or less emotionless pout once again. "I punched my attending," she explains, clearly, and rushes past him to duck into the ICU quickly.

Well.

Okay then.

Admittedly, he's almost smiling as he makes his way after her. She just got a hell of a lot more interesting - so naturally, when he enters the room, he's initially distracted, staring at her as he steps inside beside her. She simply looks back up at him, peering through her glasses, seemingly more aware of his assessment of her than he initially thought. That gives him pause for a moment, but he doesn't doubt that her story is true. There were too many mixed emotions on her face just before she told him - but the story behind that story? He's interested in that.

Smirking to himself now, he lifts his gaze, intending on looking at the lungs just in front of them. Instead his gaze trails up, and up, until they lock with a pair of familiar, caramel brown ones.

_Brown eyes lock with his own as he's shoved backwards into a wall. They're too familiar, but the man in front of him isn't. He doesn't know him as anything more than his new roommate, who he'd been switched with after his little incident with the Vicodin while his old one was in solitary. It was their first night together and it wasn't going to be their last. He knew what was coming._

_He'd been down this road before, after all._

_He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and tries to breathe through the panic, tries to rationalize the conflict raging in his mind. This has happened so many times already, more than once with more than_ _ **one person**_ _that he should be numb to it. Firm hands close around his biceps, shoving him back further, pressing him into the wall. A sharp knee presses into the hole in his thigh, eliciting a strangled cry from the doctor as he throws his head back and tries to suck in enough air to replace what had just been forced out of him all at once. Instead, the moment he opens his mouth, another one is pressed over it, lips and tongue where air should be going. He chokes and writhes, less trying to get away and more just trying to get enough room to breathe, but his struggles cease at once when the knee digging into his thigh presses harder._

" _Let's not." The voice stills him at once, his panicked expression falling slack as he forces his eyes open, and he can't bite back a strangled gasp in time as he looks up. He almost wishes his mind would conjure up Foreman instead, because who he's staring at right now is unbelievably worse. Especially when he presses closer, flesh up against him, and replaces his grip on one of House's arms with a firm grip on his throat instead. "We're going to have so much_ _ **fun**_ _together," he hisses, leaning in close. House chokes in a gasp in response, the grip on his throat tightening until he can't breathe anymore. He reaches up to claw at the man's arms, desperately trying to get some release, but it's not long before both of his wrists are pinned, helplessly, to the wall above his head instead by the man's other hand, his knee keeping his bad leg in place and the other one rather useless on its own. "Let's skip the fighting stage, hm? I wanna play now."_

_House can only shake his head in response, gasping when the grip on his throat is finally loosened. This time, when the man - the man his mind had decided to put his best friend's face in place of instead, the man he'd be sharing a room with for the next eight months, the man that he knew right away was going to make the rest of his time in prison a living hell - kisses him, the doctor can't find it in him to fight back again. He just goes slack, panting in a panicked haze, and screws his eyes shut again tightly the second he feels the grip on his throat vanish completely, fingers fumbling with the front of his pants instead. His pleas fall on deaf ears, so he goes quiet._

_But he keeps his eyes shut as much as possible until it's over._

_He doesn't want to see him._

Wilson stares back at him, and House can't breathe. Can't breathe, can't think, can't move. His best friend's - former best friend's - eyes don't leave him for a second, even when the man beside House starts speaking. He's talking about the case, but House can't focus. He just stares, trying to make sense of the cold expression in Wilson's eyes, something that initially looks too dark, too angry, enough to make his stomach twist. But then there's something almost remorseful there, something sorrowful, something hurt. Then that's gone, too. Then there's just confusion. Wilson's eyes narrow - and House's chest stops moving as he holds his breath.

The room is too small. The air is too thick. It's too hot, it's too _cold._ House can't be in here anymore and he can't fight his impulse to leave, he can't control himself, he can't _fight._ So he does what he can, taking a step back, and then another. The doctor beside him silences at once, throwing an odd glance in his direction. Park lifts her head and gives him an odd look. Everyone else is staring but House can't take his eyes off of Wilson, and Wilson doesn't take his eyes off of House, and by the time the oncologist frowns and lifts his head and opens his mouth with the intention of saying something, House knows he has to get out of here now. He can't stick around to hear his voice, he can't look him in the eyes, see his face. The thought of Wilson had crossed his mind _once_ that night, but the idea of seeing him again hadn't registered. He didn't think he'd have to deal with this so soon. He isn't _ready_ to deal with this so soon.

He kind of hates himself for it, for the panic that flares in his chest as he spins around and leaves the room, walking as fast as his bum leg and cane can carry him. He's grateful that Park has the sense not to follow him, and even more grateful when Wilson doesn't either. He doesn't stop to look back and make sure they're not, but since he doesn't hear anyone following after him, any footsteps rushing in his direction, he deems it safe enough to slow once he's far enough down the hall. It's so stupid, it's so _stupid._ Wilson should be the one avoiding him, not the other way around. Sure, it's ridiculous for his former best friend to actually be upset by what had happened with Cuddy, aside from the whole broken wrist thing, but, again, that seems _very_ well healed right now, but at the same time, House knows - if the cold expression that had initially been on Wilson's face was any indication - Wilson had every intention of never speaking to him again. Not that House had expected anything less. In fact, he expected that so much, apparently, that he hadn't even given any thought to the fact that him crossing paths with Wilson was inevitable. But he just hadn't thought about it. He hadn't expected to return to the hospital.

He hadn't expected to see Wilson ever again, and now he doesn't know how to deal with the fact that the first time he does in months, he has a damn near panic attack and _runs away._

Turning the corner, he pulls himself to a stop and sinks back against the wall. Every part of him is trembling, buzzing like he never had before. He can't stop it, but he doesn't care right then; he just squeezes his eyes shut, trying in vain to rationalize the fear pounding through his chest. He's going to get it from Foreman, walking out when he's supposed to be working, but he'll deal with that when it comes. Suddenly, he's not too sure about his decision to come back to work.

He doesn't know what he's supposed to do in this situation.

He's never _been_ in this situation.


End file.
